


Let's Light This World on Fire and Watch It Burn

by samicatalfumo



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samicatalfumo/pseuds/samicatalfumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a boy and a girl on fire, long before Cinna dressed up those kids from District 12.<br/>This is how the rebellion really started; this is the story that never made the history books, but proved to be more deadly than the Mockingjay and her always-true aim. -ON HIATUS-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> "This pledge of resistance is about to start now.  
> 'We have nailed our names in the pages of history enough for today'  
> Let's light this world on fire  
> and watch it burn."
> 
> "Pledge Resistence" is a song by Aiden, and it partially inspired this story.
> 
> PS: I know this is painfully short, but it's just a preface. The upcoming chapters will be longer. I originaly wrote this in 1st person, but changed it last minute; so I apologize if I left some pronouns in the wrong tense!  
> Thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. The Hunger Games in its entirety is property of Suzanne Collins, and now Lionsgate, and anything recognizable is theirs.

There was once a time and place for them. Now is surely not that time, but there once was.

They were the star-crossed lovers—victors full of eternally burning fire, looking down upon the gluttons of the Capitol that had made them so—long before the kids from 12 made it popular. Their time, unlike theirs, was not a time for rebellion, so they played it smart. They hid their anger, disgust, and _passion_ ; they saved it for each other.

Returning home from his Games, Finnick Odair was wood; hard, calloused, strong, _pliable_ , but no longer alive. He was 14 when he won; 14 when he pledged to take them down. He was 16 when she won; 16 when he caught fire.

Finnick Odair was wood, and if there’s one thing Johanna Mason knew—it was wood. She had been flaming for many years by the time they met. It only took him mere moments to go up in flames with her.

_That is what they were. She was the ignition; he was the fuel._

She fooled everyone when she won. **Everyone**. Not a single person bet on her, or even though to, until it was too late. Sponsors were outraged, and Snow was threatened. She was so smart, far too smart for her own good. And Snow; Snow was _stupid._ He thought he could subdue her, but he was wrong. She was 18 when she won; 11 when she vowed to destroy them them. He was 16 when they met; 20 when he broke her heart.

Johanna Mason was his first mistake, letting them meet was his second, and _the star-crossed lovers of District 12_ were his third (although you can argue that Seneca Crane is at fault for that one; Snow sure did). The public believes the Mockingjay and Peeta Mellark to be his biggest and most fatal mistake; but those who were involved in the Revolution would lean toward the first mistake.

_Fire when blanketed will be suffocated and go out—that’s true.  
When a starved fire comes into contact with an infinite amount of fuel, though, it will come back tenfold._

This is their story. This is how fire truly caught, and **this** is how a rebellion began.


	2. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finnick arrives home from the 65th Hunger Games victorious, thinking everything will be ok. He quickly learns that winning and losing go hand-in-hand.

When he finally arrived back in District 4, his home, his family was waiting for him—his mom and dad, but one of them was missing.

He didn’t realize it then, but he should have. He should have sensed it by the puffiness of their eyes, but he didn’t. He had assumed the tears were for his homecoming. He was wrong.

Mags held his close and kissed his forehead before helping him down from the train. She warned him; warned him that Snow was not pleased with his actions. _He had no idea._

He ran to them; embraced them both at once. They stood there for an immeasurable amount of time; crying and holding one another. Mr. and Mrs. Odair never thought they’d see their song again. They never thought they’d be looking into his eyes; his eyes that matched the color of the sea exactly.

After they give short interviews, but before the cameras have granted them _privacy_ —a word he will soon learn no longer exists—he asked a question. He didn’t know it yet, but this question will bring with it a consequence he never saw coming, but he should have.

“What time is it?” He asked his parents, still oblivious to the sadness in their eyes.

“3 o’clock, son,” his father answered. He ushers for them all to leave; head home. He wanted to tell his son about this in private, but it’s too late. They knew it was coming; he even knew deep down.

“Where’s Crystal? I mean… school’s out and she doesn’t work on…” he didn’t finish the sentence. He knew, before the sentence even finished in his mind.

The cameras caught it all: The agonizing scream, the thick river of tears that covered his face, the racking sobs that terrorized his body. No matter how hard he fought the ground, bruising his knuckles; tugging out his hair—he still looked beautiful. No camera would dare miss out on this.

_Crystal Sage Odair, his protective older sister/beloved confidant, was murdered. She had been murdered because her baby brother saved a 12-year-old District 10 girl from drowning on the first night of his Games. This was exactly what Mags had warned him of, and this was all it took for him to fall._

His parents explained it to be a tragic fishing accident, but even they knew better. The Odairs weren’t strangers to tragedies related to Victors.

The reporters would give their condolences for their loss and pat Finnick on the shoulder. They’d tell him he’s _strong_ , he’s a _fighter,_ and that he’ll _be OK._

_What is OK when you’ve won the Games and you’re still losing?_

He once wrote that in a journal they found in his house in Victors Village.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________

For two years he’ll be “safe” in District 4; two years he’d spend doing absolutely nothing. He’d receive invitations to the Capitol for Games, but he’d decline. Snow hadn’t shown his disapproval yet, but he knew Snow would talk send for him after his 16th birthday; Mags had expressly warned him of this.

His birthday was two days away and Mags took him out on her boat. This was common for him, after he won and before. They’d sometimes go out for hours; other times for days. They’d drift on the ocean and she would fill him in on the happenings in the Capitol, especially pertaining to him. They thought they were safe, but the Capitol had eyes and ears everywhere; especially around Victors. Mags was always careful about her words.

“They always thought you were beautiful, but now…” her words trailed off at the end, a side-effect of her recent stroke.

He’d look at her with such innocence, although he killed 13 children in his Games—a record for all history of The Hunger Games—and had his sister murdered to teach him a lesson; he always kept that innocence through all of that. He could have never known he would soon lose that too, and to the highest bidder.

“Finn, come ‘ere. Sit down.” He did as he was told and sat on her lap.

_Mags had practically raised his mother when his grandmother, Rosemarie, passed away suddenly. The two of them had been best friends all their lives. When Mags’ husband, Gregory, died Rosemarie welcomed her into her home already full of children. Mags refused to live in Victors Village or succumb to the  vices like most Victors, so she spent her “winnings” on taking care of Rosemarie, her children, and soon enough her grandchildren—especially Finnick. Mags had lost too many people to “accidents” after winning; she would do her best to spare Finnick as much as she could._

“What happens when you turn 16, my boy?”

“You become an adult?” He’d say sarcastically.

“Yes, Finn, an adult,” she’d pause and give him that all too familiar knowing, but sad smile.  
“And when you’re an adult, they’ll be able to act on that hunger they get when they see you…”

He would nod, feigning understanding; she wouldn’t elaborate. He would thank her for that. He would keep his innocence for a few more weeks, until he’d be forced to go to the Capitol for the Games. He wouldn’t be mentoring for 2 more years; not till he was surely older than all the other tributes. He would begin _learning_ this year about mentoring. _At least that’s what he thought._

His birthday came and went that year. No celebration, no fun; just another day passing. He came back from the Games a different person; one who didn’t celebrate his living. After all, the only person he would want to share these days with was always Crystal. She was gone, and slowly his other friends would fall to waste. He was too cold toward them; his joking personality replaced by something much more dark and hard.

Some would describe him as stone; cold and fierce. However, stone is permanent. Stone can be cut and cracked—eventually turning to powder, falling through your fingers—but it will always be _stone_. No, he would change. He was wood; identical to stone in strength, _though in different ways_ , but able to change. To burn. And burn he did.

A few more weeks would pass and he would find himself stumbling across the District 4 stage at the Reaping ceremony. This would be his second time doing so, but it would still feel so foreign to him. Ariel Montgomery and Ray Steiner would be reaped. He knew neither of them. The weight of their death when they perished during the bloodbath at the Cornucopia would still befall him. He made District 4 a target; he knew this.

_Only one more person would ever win from District 4; but if you ever knew Annie Cresta, you may use a term besides “winning” to describe her fate._

Finnick Odair would feel every single one of their deaths—not just those of _his_ tributes, but every single tribute’s death. All of them would leave a mark on his conscience. All of them would help him to fuel the future rebellion.

But none of that could compare to the fire that was Johanna Mason.  
___________________________________________________________________________________

Snow would send for him later that night. He’d be lying awake; watching Ariel’s throat being ripped open; replaying the sound of Ray’s laughter as he went into shock from the knife wound in his back. All of it would plague him for a lifetime. Snow didn’t care.

A knock came at the door. Finnick looked to the clock: _3:17AM._ Slowly he’d make his way to the door and open it, only to find nothing—nothing but a small red envelope with a stark white rose clipped to it.

_Finnick, come to the Remake Center._

_I would like to make a deal with you._

_-Snow_

He would drop the note to the ground and instinctively run to Mags room. She would offer no advice other than to agree. She’d kiss his head and hold him close, just like before the stepped off the train on his way home. He knew something was wrong. He always knew, but it was always too late.

He’d make his way to the Remake Center, dragging his feet and hiding his face from the other guests walking around the Training Center. He was already a celebrity; accustomed to the looks. The hunger in their eyes as he watched them imagining him undressed. He knew what they wanted. He never thought they’d get it.

Upon his arrival, the scent of roses and blood almost overpowers him; causing him to gag momentarily. As he contemplates turning back to his room, the door swings wide open.

“Mr. Odair, please, have a seat.”

Finnick could not see where Snow was, but that voice was unmistakable. He took a seat hesitantly on the plush loveseat under the single dimly lit lamp in the room.

“You said you want to make a deal, Mr. President?” Finnick asked curiously.

_They say ‘curiosity killed the cat’ for a reason._

Still unseen to Finnick, Snow chuckled.  
“Straight down to business, are we? Well, in that case; yes. I have a deal to make with you, Mr. Odair. I strongly urge you to consider it.”

All at once, the other lights blink on. The blinding light slightly incapacitates Finnick for a second while his eyes adjust. The Remake Center he’s been to plenty of times is different than he’s ever seen it. The walls are filled with giant blacked out screens emitting an ominous black light.

“I’m all ears,” said Finnick in his normal smart-ass attitude.

Snow, remaining speechless, turned his attention to one of the screens. Finnick did as well, still curious. Without a warning, the screen turned on.

Finnick sat helplessly in the Remake Center as he watched the recording of his sister being ripped to shreds by stealthy peacekeepers. It only took minutes for the five men to surround her and mutilate her body.

First, there was a slash across her abdomen, sending her writhing in pain and screaming; then, a clean cut to her knee, slicing it all the way through the bone. As she laid there, blood pouring from her stump of a leg, she kept repeating a single word: “Finnick.” Even when the men slit her throat, she continued to mouth his name, though all that could be heard was a gurgle.Then all at once, it stopped. The light from her eyes disappeared and her shallow breathing stopped.

Finnick could not tear his eyes away the whole time. 


	3. The Will to Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at how Johanna's flames began to grow.

Johanna Mason was a fighter long before her Games; long before she took a discarded axe into her hands and skillfully hacked through her opponents; long before she killed 11 children to earn her place in Victor's Village. Before she was even eligible for Reaping, she was fighting. Her life shouldn't have been so bleak, but it was.

By all accounts and footage, Johanna never got along well with Panem's savior, the precious Mockingjay; most likely because Johanna saw too much of herself in –the now—Mrs. Mellark. Despite their combative demeanor, cold indifference, and selfishness, there was a major difference between the two—the final nail in the coffin of their would-be friendship. Johanna Mason lost  **everything**  both before and during the war; Katniss Mellark got to keep so much, though—in Johanna's eyes— she never appreciated any of it.

Mrs. Mason was a wonderfully kind, jovial woman and doting mother. Johanna, even at a young age, was ever the ornery, troublesome child, especially after her 13-year-old brother was reaped. She was only 6, but she understood one thing when Jem Mason never came home:  _The Capitol killed my brother_. She never meant any harm by her comments that would eventually follow, but harm would come. 

Only a year had passed since Jem died in the bloodbath at the cornucopia; grief still filled the faces of the Mason family. It was fall, only a few weeks until the next Games. Seven-year-old Johanna and her mother were walking hand-in-hand through the town square back to their home. The square was covered in posters—Games-propaganda from the Capitol. The very sight of it made Johanna's skin squirm.

"Mom…"

"Hmm?" Mrs. Mason would reply, sorrow rimming her beautiful green eyes.

"They're murderers!" Dropping her bags to the ground, leaves crunching under her unsteady strides, Johanna would run to the nearest poster and rip it to shreds.  
"They murdered him.  _Murdered_  him! Why are the murdering little kids, mommy?"

Mrs. Mason took off after her daughter, squeezing her hand over her daughter's mouth. But it was too late, the words had been said, and everyone had heard. The entire square stopped and stared at the two women.

Out of nowhere, District 7's head peacekeeper stalked up on the two, still crouching on the ground with tear-filled eyes. "That is treason, Mrs. Mason."

She looked up at him with tragically fearful eyes. Her head shook almost violently as she wrapped her arms around her daughter.  
"NO! NO! You can't have her! You already took my son! You can't take my daughter, too!" She shrieked through sobs.

"Now, now. Do calm down," he spoke in an evil tone. "We can…make an arrangement."

Mrs. Mason and Johanna were grabbed by the peacekeeper and forced to their feet. With his gun to Mrs. Mason's back he lead them forcefully to his house. He ordered Mrs. Mason to lock her daughter in the bathroom, then to strip.

She did as she was told. His grimy hands slinked across Mrs. Mason's nude body. She would do anything to protect Johanna, and Johanna was aware of all that was going on.

Johanna heard her mother cry out in pain as he shoved into her mother. She heard the bed shaking and her mother crying. She heard him slap her across her beautiful face, now stained in her own blood.

It was over, and Mrs. Mason came to get Johanna. The door was unlocked and Johanna ran into her mother's arms.

He again grabbed his gun, put it to the back of Mrs. Mason's head, and pulled the trigger.

Johanna's hair was stained by her mother's blood and brain matter for weeks.

It would later be ruled "non-criminal" and Mrs. Mason would go down as a traitor in the record books. Mr. Mason and Johanna knew the truth; but when dealing with a corrupt government, the truth is putty— ready to be mashed up and tugged into any form.

The tragic loss of her mother changed Johanna. She learned to stifle her comments, though she never changed her mind about the Capitol and the Games.

IiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiI

Johanna, as aforementioned, was always so terribly smart. After her mother's death she put her energy into three things: training, taking her mother's job at the Mason-family furniture boutique, and school. By the time she was 9, she was in a class with 13 year-olds. At the rate she was going she'd graduate by the time she was 13. She met with the principal often, trying to finish school so she could go work with her father.

She was fairly well known around District 7 because of this. She'd spend 6 hours in school, and then pull a ten hour shift at the boutique, all while managing to have top marks. The public thought she would get out of the district—maybe be a doctor for the capitol or something else smart—but they never thought she'd get out the way she did.

It was hard, but the Masons got by. Johanna would work as much as she could; taking over the job held previously by her mother. The Masons owned a small furniture boutique. Mr. Mason, a respected carpenter, would buy wholesale lumber from the various lumberjacks of their district. Cherry, maple, oak, pine—any and all kinds of wood that could be taken from rough logs to beautiful, fine crafted furniture. He'd tinker with the logs, slowly dwindling them down to small, ornate pieces of soon-to-be tables, chairs, cabinets, even the occasional mirror. Mrs. Mason would stain and sand his finished work. She'd spend her working hours meticulously sanding away all imperfections and then turn the furniture into something more—into a piece of true art. Her staining abilities were known so well, that Capitol citizens would personally request items from the Masons' shop. The other similar shops in 7 were always so jealous, for they only made things for mass production; the kind of furniture in everyone's houses. Johanna, try as she might, could never make a dark cherry stain turn our seamlessly as her mother did. She'd work her fingers raw, sanding away every imperfection, but it was never enough. A seam always shown through when the stain would seep into a small rough patch and the product would never be as good as it could have been. Capitol clients lost interest; orders slowed, but kept coming nonetheless. Johanna kept working. She worked even harder when faced with the threat of ruining the family business her father worked so hard to make succeed. They both worked, well past exhaustion.

One summer day, he just collapsed. Johanna heard the crash and rushed into the backroom. Mr. Mason was lying unconscious on the floor or his workroom. She half-drug/half-carried her father to the apothecary.

After a few days of tests, the diagnosis came back: cancer. Medicine to make him comfortable as the demon ate his body would be very expensive, but the Masons could afford it. Even if they couldn't, Johanna would find a way to ease her father's passing. She knew they couldn't take him to the Capitol for the drug therapy that might actually be able to cure him, but she knew they could at least order the medicine to take away his pain as he slowly faded into nothingness.

That was not the case. The Capitol was not keen on families of "traitors," and the Masons were no exception. Mrs. Mason's  _treason_  blacklisted the entire Mason family, preventing Johanna from offering her father any kind of peace.

Mr. Mason was a strong, proud man. For two years he held on, the last six months of which he spent confined to his bed. Johanna, only 11, was in her last year of school. He promised to make it until her graduation, but even the strongest of us eventually lose their fight.

Every night from the time he was diagnosed until the day she watched the light leave his eyes, she would read to him. She'd read stories from before the Dark Days; stories of hope and overcoming adversities. She'd promise him that one day they would pay. She'd promise to bring down the Capitol. She would promise to avenge him.

It was a Thursday morning, when he passed. He'd not been able to speak for weeks, barely clinging to life as he tried to make it to her graduation only a few months away. He rang the bell she placed by his arm for assistance. She rushed in, hiding her sorrow. She knew it was coming. She'd long lost the hope of him making it to her graduation. She wanted him to stop fighting, and to just  _go —_ into the light, where peace would overpower his pain. Johanna learned her fight from the best.

She sat at his side, holding his hand in hers. They both knew it was coming any minute now. He'd lost the ability to eat days ago and he was already so thin at that point. He was nothing; skin and bones riddled with ravenous cancer pacing through his veins. He looked up at her, the movement obviously excruciating for him.

"Jo," he croaked, his voice barely audible. "Break them. I know you can."

"I promise."

She kissed his forehead and he was gone. All his fight passed into her. She knew what she had to do. She would stop at nothing to succeed.

IiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiI

At 11 years-old, Johanna Mason pledged to bring down the Capitol. Now, she'd just have to wait until she found a way to intermingle with their filth and spark a revolution to bring hell to all of them.

She was fire from birth, and the more she loss, the more dangerous her flames grew.

She graduated a few months later and devoted her time to training; training for the Games. The Games would be her one chance to accomplish what she's always wanted. Winning would put her in the hands of the Capitol, where she could finally seek vengeance. Of course, this was long before she knew what it meant to be a Victor.

She couldn't let the Capitol kill her for a game, when she was so vexed to bring them down. No, she'd  **never**  let them overtake her.


	4. Dismantle. Repair.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never saw her Games; not when they aired; not once in the years that followed.  
> He liked to believe he was the one man in all of Panem who didn't possess a spoiled image of her.  
> He took pride in knowing her for who she is, not what she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not related to the Anberlin song of the same title, just so you know.   
> Also, sorry for the lack of updates. This was long overdue.

“Now, now, Mr. Odair, let’s not be so hasty,” Snow says as Finnick turned to leave. “You’ve still got quite a large family back home, don’t you?”

Finnick nodded, but he did not let himself think of them—all his little cousins and his aunts and uncles—he only thought of the nieces and nephews he’d never meet because of the man who stood before him. He held his tongue; he held onto his fury.

He sat in the plush loveseat with perfect posture, displaying the utmost composure. He wouldn’t give Snow the satisfaction of watching him squirm. He was a Victor; he knew how to hide his fear and grief. He knew how to play his part and play it well.

He agreed to the deal—sell yourself to save your family—like so many Victors did before him and would do after him.

(The most tragic part is that during the rebellion, the entire Odair clan perished; his agony was all in vain. He never knew this, though; the mutts got to him before the news did.)  
________________

Mags turned him over to Haymitch Abernathy who, despite being middle-aged and a complete drunkard, was much more helpful to the new Victors than he ever was to his tributes—until Katniss and Peeta, of course, but that really had nothing to do with him.

Haymitch taught him the tricks of the trade—how to _give everything_ you have to your clients, without actually giving them anything personal; how to compartmentalize the hurt, anger, and frustration from the Capitol façade you must present to the world; and most importantly, how to still be able to find yourself under all of it.

At first, he hated Haymitch. Finnick didn’t understand why Mags brought him there; he saw Haymitch as a washed-up old man too hooked on drink to know what was going on. Finnick didn’t know that Haymitch helped because he cared. Finnick didn’t know that Haymitch was the most qualified, because he was the example. Finnick didn’t know that Haymitch, being an ignorant and cocky teenager, lost everyone he loved because there was no one to make him understand how to be a Victor; no one to teach him how to make it out of the Games with a family. Finnick didn’t know, and no one could blame him for his ignorance; it’s something expected of new Victors.

It took years before Finnick understood, but that’s a story for later. I promise to share it with you all soon, but not now. We’ve got a couple years to go until then.

The 67th Hunger Games had never been seen by Finnick. During the Games, since he wasn’t officially mentoring, he was always with clients. He was young, beautiful, and oh-so charming; it wasn’t any wonder as to why he was constantly booked.

The history books will teach you that he was an “escort,” but that’s not the word anyone would actually use to describe Finnick Odair.

Finnick Odair, the boy with the trident, the child Victor of the brutal Games he helped to stop, was more than an escort. Finnick was a slave, beaten around and used, then thrown to the streets to find his way home afterwards. He never sought out payment, never complained; never even so much as created any doubt in his handlers’ minds that he was anything but theirs. He had a job to do: save his family. He did it perfectly, no matter the cost to his body and mind. His mind never dodged the abuse of a client; constantly asking him to “love” them, thinking he wanted to be there, wanted to be _with_ them. His body often avoided it. Many clients were too afraid to leaves marks on his skin; afraid of lessening his beauty. But sometimes, they weren’t. Sometimes, they’d cut him and whip him. They’d beat him within an inch of death, and leave him on the street with a punctured lung. They’d kill him again and again, but never let his soul move on to the freedom that awaited him; never let his body truly rest.

The only form of compensation he received were the small secrets he’d overhear; the tidbits of information they’d whisper to others when they thought he was out of earshot, or the more straight forward ones they’d reveal out of guilt.

After years of torment, he’d finally use those secrets. He’d lead a rebellion with the aid of those secrets.

(I’m getting ahead of myself once more, and I apologize. There’s just so much for me to say, it’s hard to keep all these thoughts in order.)

Time became obsolete. The sun rose and set over the Capitol, but all Finnick knew was his schedule. He slept when he could, but would fall victim to nightmares. Crystal would haunt him most of all, but so would Jullican. None of you remember Jullican, but he was Finnick’s final kill. He was 16 and a career, the epitome of brutal—but his kill had been the hardest on Finnick. “You’re one of us now, Pretty Boy,” were words that Finnick could never shake. Although he hailed from District 4, Finnick never trained; never wanted to kill. But he did, he killed more than anyone else ever did. He killed. It was bloody and messy, and painful. The innocent child became a calloused killer in a matter of days.

The Capitol would see to it that he never forgot that. Everywhere he turned there was a reminder of his games, from the trident-themed décor of every room they check him into, to the billboards of his face plastered around the shining city. He could never escape it. Not when he was choked into oblivion by his handlers—that only reminded him of when Clarissa held him down under the water, where he gasped for air until he finally overpowered her and snapped her neck—and especially not when he slept. Nothing was better when he slept; but that’s the same for all Victors.

________________

He never saw the 67th Hunger Games.

During its airing, he was _literally_ tied up and far too preoccupied with his duties to even try to watch the recaps; as far as he was concerned, since 4’s tributes died in the bloodbath he didn’t have any reason to watch 22 other kids slaughter each other.

(Even in the years that followed, he never requested the tapes; never even really contemplated watching them. I think that if he were here now, he’d watch her tapes with her; all the Victors re-watched their tapes after the Capitol fell. It was healing, in a really tortuous way.)

When Johanna Mason was announced as the Victor, Finnick had been sipping some orange juice with Mags in the Mentor’s Café. He almost choked on the acidic liquid when it spewed out his nose from his utter shock.

He remembered seeing her before the Games; in reaping recaps, training scores, and interviews. He thought she was a goner for sure. Mags told him—quietly, of course, because there’s no such thing as privacy for Victors—how she had won.

Finnick Odair, who was already sort of a heart-throb to all of the Capitolites—but not quite as much as he would soon become—was for the first time in his life completely nervous about meeting a woman.

Somehow, he had to figure out how to talk to, and hopefully one day, befriend the sly, cunning, tragically brutal girl that killed almost as many children as he did; someone who would understand how much like a monster he felt; and most importantly, someone who defied the Capitol and kept their will to live.

He had only six months until that very woman would be welcomed to District 4 on her Victory Tour. He had only 6 months to muster up the courage to speak to her. At the time, the feat was unattainable to him.

But Finnick Odair was a victor in all of his endeavors, not just the Hunger Games; and this was just one more quest in which he’d succeed. 


	5. Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna learns that there's always something more to lose, even after you win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be on hiatus until further notice. I estimate it to be around 27 chapters. I'm writing another story that will also be around 18-20 chapters, and I can't focus on both of them.  
> So, I'm stopping my work on Let's Light This World on Fire and Watch It Burn to work on my other story. Upon it's completion, I will return to this.
> 
> Don't give up on it! I promise I'll be back.

After her father died, Johanna had no one left.

Her brother, her mother, her father—no one left.

With her father, went her friends. She was now an orphan and an outcast.

Her first Reaping was brutal. She was completely alone; no one was there to hold her hand. She woke up that morning from a particularly awful nightmare and called out for Spencer, her brother, only to remember he'd never come. (Sometimes she still cries out for him in her nightmares, just as I do for my long-lost loved ones.)

She half-hoped she'd be Reaped. She so desperately wanted to shake things up in the Capitol; to earn her rank in the Hall of Victors and cement her place in that hellhole of frivolous waste and merciless destruction—so she could make every single one of them pay. When her name was not called, she did not rejoice like the other lucky children. She was somewhat crushed, but quickly decided she would only improve her chances of [winning](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7981654/5/Lets_Light_This_World_on_Fire_and_Watch_It_Burn) if she were older. So she waited patiently for her time.

For two years, Johanna was virtually a hermit. She lived off of her family's life [savings](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7981654/5/Lets_Light_This_World_on_Fire_and_Watch_It_Burn); never trying to get a job; never really leaving her house except to buy food and supplies—and never did she speak a word to anyone.

She trained daily. She could throw an axe with pristine accuracy from fifty meters away; it was quite a formidable skill—something she still possess. She signed up for tesserae, even though she didn't need it, in hopes that she'd increase her odds of being reaped. [Volunteering](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7981654/5/Lets_Light_This_World_on_Fire_and_Watch_It_Burn) for someone wouldn't be so suspicious if she had friends or family, but she didn't. She  _needed_  to be reaped for her story to really work.

She had no friends; no neighbors; no family. She was just Johanna Mason, the imperceptibly smart, sad little orphan girl. She was small and dainty-looking, though in time she would prove to the whole nation to be quite the opposite.

On her 13th birthday, she ventured into town to buy herself a treat—something her mother used to do and a habit her father picked up on after her death. She made her way to the bakery, intent on buying a cookie or two, but decided she couldn't. She didn't want to celebrate without them. Instead, she went to the florist and bought her mother's favorite flowers—azaleas—and tenderly placed them on each of her family members' graves. She cried for hours. Eventually she walked back to her home, tear tracks staining her face.

It was on her way back that she met him, Reiner Vogel. It was then that she met the first person to make her smile in what felt like a lifetime.

(She never told me much about him, how they got to know each other, or how their relationship grew; but she occasionally gave up little glimpses of their life together—mostly when she thought I couldn't hear her.)

He was kind and sweet, she says. While she was brooding and depressed and angry, he was light—pure, angelic light—she says. She loved him. He loved her. He almost made her want to give up her fight, and forget about the Capitol's atrocities and her abhorrence toward them. But, she thinks now, that even if she had, she would have joined the cause anyway eventually.

Her birthday is always within three days of the start of the Games.

He is six months older than she.

On his 19th birthday, he proposes to her. She accepts. (She never tells me the story, and I don't push her for details)

There is only one thing she wants more than to be Mrs. Reiner Vogel, and that is to win the Games.

This is her last year to try, and she prays that someone worth volunteering for will be called. She doesn't believe in a God and she never really did, but this Reaping almost made her.

Every year since she turned 12, she hoped with all her might she would be reaped, or someone frail or very young would be called, so she could volunteer for a complete stranger and play the part of a defenseless sacrificial lamb headed for the slaughter.

This last year—this last chance—she actually prayed because she had never wanted something more in her life; not then and not now.

She never told Reiner about her goal. She never wanted him to worry about her, and she always assumed he'd be there when she got back.

When she went to stand in the herd of the other 18-year-old girls from 7, she hated that she had to let go of his hand. She knew that this year, she would play the Games. She knew it would crush him, but she knew she'd be back. He'd only have to trust her.

To her pleasure, a small, 12-year-old girl's name was drawn at the Reaping. The very moment the crying, hysteric little thing made her way to the stage, Johanna lunged forward.

"I volunteer," she said shakily—playing her part well.

The reporters would cast a tale of a selfless orphan with no loved ones sacrificing herself for a dainty little girl. They were so wrong.

Reiner was her one and only guest, and the peacekeepers pitied her so they let him have the full hour with her.

"Why?"

He just held her and cried; she couldn't answer him, so she just cried too. For the first time in her life, she actually felt fear. Not fear of losing her life—Johanna was too cocky for her own good—but fear of losing  _him_.

"I'll explain when I come home," she said between sobs.

She really wanted to say, "I love you," and, "No matter what I do in that arena, don't forget who  _I_  am," but she didn't.

* * *

We all know how she won her Games.

She pulled a 4 in training and was timid and scared in her interview. She played her part exceedingly well. Even Blight was fooled. No one expected her to win; let alone make it through the bloodbath. But, she did. She was fast a light on her feet; she fled far from the cornucopia.

She didn't receive a single gift from a sponsor and no one thought to bet on her until it was too late to change your bets.

The third night, she stumbled across the girl from 6 sleeping in a tree clutching an axe. Soundlessly, Johanna took the axe and beheaded the girl right then and there. It was a painless death for her, and Johanna did not hate herself for that. She killed nine more tributes in that same way—painless and so without them sensing her coming.

It was when it was down to Johanna and Giuseppe, District 2's male tribute, that she actually had to fight with someone. The hours they spent in their mortal game of cat and mouse were the only time she ever doubted her chances of winning.  _He_ was the reason she won.

Giuseppe was trailing behind her—his mass of muscles proving to hinder his speed, while Johanna's dainty but toned figure only aided her sprint— but fatigue was started to get to her; when out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sparrow—

" _Johanna Vogel, it's got a nice ring to it, don't it?"_

" _What's Vogel mean, anyway? That's such a weird last name," she said with her chin pressed to his shoulder, admiring her new engagement ring with her arms wrapped around his shoulders._

" _It's German, some old language from before Panem existed, for 'bird,'" he replied pointing at a sparrow._

_Reiner nudged her chin up to look at the beautiful bird._

" _You'll fit in quite well. You're so clever, and so light, I bet you could fly if you flapped your wings."_

" _We'll soon find out," she said against his lips. "Maybe I was always meant to be a bird in some way."_

\- Suddenly, she found the renewed strength to carry on. She stopped and faced Giuseppe head on. It was a bloody fight—she almost lost her left arm—but she threw her ran away from him and threw her axe.

The tip of the blade hit him square in the eye—because like I said, she and Katniss have more in common than either of them would like to admit—before she could bleed out.

When the hovercraft came to collect her, she let go of the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

As the drugs pulled her under, she knew she just had to heal and do her interview, then she could see  _him_  again. She didn't know how to explain her actions to Panem, since she pretended to be such a frail, hopeless girl in her pre-Games interview, but she knew Blight, her mentor, would help her.

What she didn't know—or couldn't fathom—was that Snow was angrier at her than he had been at Haymitch Abernathy. We all know how he made an example of Haymitch. Johanna never saw it coming. _Again, she was too cocky for her own good._

* * *

Blight instructed her to act as if her viciousness was instinct.

"Don't let them know you're smart," he told her.

She didn't understand, yet, why it mattered if she had won on purpose or if instinct and survival had taken over; but she trusted Blight, so she listened.

Her interview went off without a hitch. She was shy and fearful, just as she had been before the Games. Caesar asked her questions about what she was looking forward to when she got home.

"My fiancé of course," she replied automatically.

"I'm sure you'll make a lovely bride," he said before ending the interview.

She never before said she was engaged. Snow honestly didn't know Reiner was her fiancé, but that didn't make a difference to him.

While the public was convinced that she won because of her instinct, Snow was not. He  _knew_  she did it on purpose. She was rebellious and a loose-cannon, and he realized it quickly.

She arrived home on a Wednesday afternoon, expecting to be greeted by Reiner's open arms.

His brother was there instead, and the look of gloom on his face told her everything before his mouth opened to form the words.

The next day, she had a little sparrow tattooed over her heart to ensure that she would never forget. She was meant to become a Vogel, but she would have to settle on carrying a little bird on her skin.

It wasn't enough, but it was all she could do.

Snow had intended to subdue her; scare her into forgetting about any rebellious ideals she had—but he had no idea the scope of her hatred for him and his regime. In reality, he had done just the opposite.

There was no hiding her hatred any longer; no pushing it down and maintaining a façade of placidity. No, now she was burning bright and smoking for all to see.

It was only a matter of time until someone went up in flames with her.


End file.
